


Vignettes From Hallownest

by rukafais



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, everything will be marked accordingly, i am NOT tagging everyone in this that's way too big a potential tag cloud, i put some char/relationship tags on here cos they show up more than once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-15 02:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17520320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: Prompt collection originally done on Tumblr. Gathered here for easy reading.





	1. opia (quirrel + the knight)

**Author's Note:**

> I opened my inbox on tumblr to do some ficlet writing and I got NINE PROMPTS to start with so that's plenty enough for a collection I think

_**"Opia:** the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable."  
_

_Winning a staring contest with them would be impossible_ , is Quirrel’s first thought upon meeting the little wanderer’s gaze.

He wonders if he should lean down or kneel to be at their height, but then again, he doesn’t know how they would take it. Some bugs find it condescending. Others find it kind. He can’t read much from their expression, what little they have of one, and so he opts for a polite in-between of glancing down at them and trying not to look too intimidating for being taller.

They don’t seem to care, either way. He doesn’t know why it bothers him that they don’t; surely there must be something?

But he searches their gaze and finds little. _(Some long forgotten part of himself twinges in painful sympathy; an old, hidden memory resurfacing. The blank, uncomprehending masks of broken vessels, a monstrous price for–_ ) It’s almost painful, in a strange way. What he finds there is something he doesn’t quite understand yet.

He talks to them for a little while, about himself. About his wanderlust, a drive to see something new; something ancient and long-ruined.

They take their leave before he does, leaving the temple without a word, and he finally puts a name to the only thing he _had_ seen in their eyes;

exhaustion. 

Even here, a seeming newcomer to this place and ruin, they had come a long, long way. And even if they weren’t aware of it, some part of them was tired beyond belief.

He decides that maybe, if he crosses paths with them again, he’ll talk to them of pleasant things, and perhaps that look may change.

He hopes, anyway.


	2. euphonious (grimm/brumm)

_**Euphonious:** pleasing; sweet in sound_

He likes catching Brumm off guard, in a way.

Granted, it’s not terribly hard. He always finds a way to surprise his musician, though they’ve known each other for hundreds of years and Brumm is used to all his tricks by now. _That_ part, the element of surprise, he’s long mastered.

Pleasant surprises that lead to open displays of emotion are a different matter altogether, and something he’s finding surprisingly difficult. Brumm isn’t prone to much unrestrained laughter, to many overt displays of happiness, and that is simply how he is. It’s not something Grimm desires to change; it’s one of the many small things that makes him unique, and in truth all the more endearing. Quiet warmth suits his beloved musician far better than anything else.

But he still remembers – something, hundreds of years ago now in his long, long life. A pleasant, treasured memory.

_It’s an overly complicated dance that he was half-certain would end in tears or else never work, some complex, unrefined acrobatic routine he’s only really used once or twice in all his years. Too unpracticed and too fickle to be a real performance, but it’s always nice to let loose and breathe, once in a while.  
_

_His musician watches in anxious, breathless concern, and like magic Grimm’s confidence and daring transforms Brumm’s expression into a hesitant smile. It’s magic, a spell he’s worked so many times on the faces of distant crowds, but it feels better here with just the two of them than it does anywhere else.  
_

_He lands with a flourish, and the sound of Brumm’s laughter mingling with his applause startles him; it’s an expression of happiness, of awe. Complete and utter wonder.  
_

_It’s too brief, he thinks, when it finally stops; his musician seems embarrassed that Grimm heard it in the first place._

_But still, it’s one of the most wonderful sounds he’s ever heard.  
_


	3. kenopsia, nepenthe (hornet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey do you want to feel sad about hornet? here you go SO AM I

_**Kenopsia:** the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet / _ _**Nepenthe:** a medicine for sorrow; a place, person or thing, which can aid in forgetting your pain and suffering_

Hornet (gendered child, princess, _fair bargain made_ ) returns only once to the nest that loved her. 

Those who might have once been her subjects (and worse, her playmates) in a world that hadn’t gone wrong shift restlessly in sleep, ready to wake wrongly at a moment’s notice. She treads carefully, because she doesn’t want to stir them from their shallow slumber; she doesn’t want to see that orange light blazing in their eyes that means that they are lost, and be reminded that her mother’s sacrifice was for nothing.

She remembers that the Weaver’s Den was once full of sound; the hum of spools  being filled, the clicking and bustling of thread being arranged on frames and patterns being wound. Now, the alien silence bears down on her like a weight; it closes her throat like a noose around her neck.

The charm shines quietly in the still air, the last thing the Weavers ever made. For her. 

(She can’t bear to take it; she can’t bear to wear it and be reminded of all she’s lost, of all she is that they are not, to know they thought of her even when she did not think of them. 

She can almost hear those voices _\- you are just a child, Princess, you were just a child_ \- and she pushes it away, buries it deep inside. The guardian of Hallownest can no longer afford to cry selfishly like she once did; the princess of Deepnest is another self and person entirely now, lost and far away, long, long gone.

She leaves the charm there for someone else to take. Better for another to use it; better for it to remain here as a memorial to their love.)

Soft footfalls break the silence. She whips around, her needle ready– if it’s the infection, if it’s another enemy, she’ll strike them down for daring to intrude on this sacred place – 

it’s a weaver, standing tall and straight, with no orange glow in their eyes.

She thinks that perhaps she’s dreaming, and this is a prelude to her own sickness. Or that she’s seeing things, and she’s not used to Deepnest’s air any more. A hallucination.

“You’re not real,” she says, and her voice sounds weak, not sharp as she wants it to, not hard as someone born of Deepnest _should_ be.

The weaver does not answer. They come to her, and sit, and bid that she sit too in silent motions.

(She hates the weakness that makes her obey, that makes her legs collapse under her like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. It feels like failure, and she’s surprised they don’t hold it against her.)

She sits with them a long time. On an abandoned frame they weave a story about a princess and her mother, like a fairytale from times past, except that the story is about her, except that the story is about Herrah.

Eventually, she is lulled into sleep by the sounds that had soothed her as a child so long ago.

When she wakes, the weaver is gone, and the story is finished and wound into a spool, and the echo of their words - a voice she has never heard before and hasn’t heard since - is left behind.

_“This place no longer brings you any happiness. You will become lost in old memories…  
_

_Do not dwell here any longer than you must.”  
_

She takes the words to heart. She never returns. But she keeps the spool, somewhere safe.

(It eases a burden in her, regardless, to remember she was not unloved.)


	4. hiraeth (grimm + the knight)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably one of the more esoteric, headcanon-based ones. It touches on things I've somewhat addressed in previous fics but since most of that is also shipping fic, here's some more general stuff.

_**Hiraeth:** the homesickness for a home you can never return to; a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past_

The Knight sleeps, rarely, but they do sleep. A few moments, snatched on iron benches, in places far from the surface but not far from the light.

Grimm catches slight flashes, here and there, of their uneasy slumber. 

(Even before the Lantern calls him, the nightmares of the dead and the pained cries of an imprisoned child make Hallownest shine like a beacon. But most of all…)

The visions aren’t clear, at first. It begins with blurred dreams of someone calling, and the child following; running through never-ending darkness, pierced with strange light. Never quite reaching them before they shake themselves awake and continue on. A grey, confusing thing.

As they fight, as they scar, as the world sears itself into their memories and breaks them over and over, as they find things to love and admire _(both beautiful and grotesque_ ), their dreams become more colourful, more vivid. Their dreams are no longer just them; other ghosts, other voices. Others’ colours leaking into their restless sleep.

They relive last moments, old memories, of places in their prime they’ve never seen and meetings with bugs they’ve never met. They feel old sorrows, old loves, old happiness. Always from another’s past, never for themselves _,_ and yet they feel it anyway; the little vessel shares the burden of another’s emotion, to give catharsis and release. Peering through the lens of others’ memories, they find what they can never see themselves.

In the bottom of the world they find their _own_ nightmares, and Grimm illuminates such things with scarlet flame (or perhaps it’s the Nightmare King who does, or perhaps and most accurately, it’s both of them. Where the god ends and the vessel begins is an unanswerable question). He peers into their mind and finds their horror, their pain.

_What have you done? What did you do to me? What didn’t I do enough of?_

_How could I not have saved any of them?_

He stings them awake from such terrible dreams, burns them for kindling as he does all nightmares. They create dark flames that burn long and potent, sustained by the bitter feelings that stem from exhaustion and grief.

And he remembers, long ago, a memory of a nightmare from this exact child; the manner of their birth, the manner of their discard. _They dream of falling into darkness, surrounded by the dead; the impact plunges them into the yawning abyss made of their own siblings, who cover and suffocate them, and there is no bottom. There is no end. The nightmare never ends–  
_

_**Oh, child, little vessel, there is no nightmare that never ends.** The red-rust voice of a god in flames whispers in the depths of their mind, hidden in the endless clatter of broken masks.  
_

**_You can end this dark, dark dream._ **

_**All you have to do is wake.**   
_

_They disappear from his sight. (They wake, at last, in the bottom of the world, and begin their flight from Hallownest._ )

They stand before him, summoner, by contract bound. They cast a long shadow in the red light.

“Well met, my friend, well met,” he says with a smile, and the Knight can’t help but feel a sense of odd familiarity, a comfort that is almost a longing, a question unanswered.

_Shadows dream of endless fire._

(What could I have become, with you?)


	5. susurrus (white lady)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely based off a friend's guessing about how Marmu mentions a queen that will teach them how to fly when they're the guardian of the Queen's Gardens, and since the White Lady is root-based, then...?
> 
> (And then we made jokes about how PK stole Radiance's girlfriend for a couple minutes instead)

_**Susurrus:** a whispering or rustling sound_

Even though she can no longer see the way she once did, she can still feel the world around her. Sight is gone - almost gone - but hearing persists.

She sits, bound in her prison, and listens.

The distant sound of the Radiance’s song; light through leaves, light inside. She is a subterranean creature; she has no particular desire for the goddess’ embrace, too burning-bright for her preference.

But she remembers their meetings. Small fragments, from a time before, when she was young.

She turns her face upward. In the distant rustling of leaves and what she perceives as life, she remembers the Radiance’s song.

_She is always singing, this goddess of dreams. Her voice chimes and echoes, layers back in on itself; a _battle cry, a cacophony_ of sound. The minds of her worshippers a sea, reflecting her light tenfold.  
_

_She wears godhood like a mantle she was born to wield, and she, the Root, a simple and pale thing who will someday grow to full potential, watches and listens. They talk, sometimes, as much as they can both manage, because they are so far apart._

_But perhaps it is because they are so far apart that the Light finds her so fascinating. They do not need each other. They have little to do with each other. The Root is not a goddess, not really; she has no desire to be one. The Light basks in the worship of her followers and brings their dreams to life, colours their sleep.  
_

_They couldn’t be more different._

She blinks silently in darkness, lit only by her own glow; memory has made her tired. So much makes her tired, these days; in her bindings, she feels constrained and old.

She closes her eyes and lets the sound of the gardens, all around her, lull her into sleep.


	6. sempiternal (the knight)

_**Sempiternal:** everlasting; eternal_

 

They leave their mark in the world, little by little.

They stumble across the Nailmasters one by one; they are friendly, sour, content. Two ask only for their occasional visit, for mentions of their brothers. One demands payment, hidden in the ash at the bottom of the kingdom.

They bring their company, and the company of others; in one case, they leave a flower. (They visit, some time later, and far from being tossed away, it thrives in a vase, instead;

if they could smile, they would.)

They rescue a girl who blushes to see them, who styles them a hero when they are not; they don’t quite understand it, nor the things she writes, but they respect her passion for the things she does.

(Later, much later, they see her head off into the wilds. She seems to have calmed down about making something of them that they aren’t, and so they wish her luck.)

They carry flowers to a grave and watch them grow; they bring the blooms to the lady in white, to a lonely old bug in a town no longer so deserted who holds it gently in his claws. Their legacy thrives in an act of kindness, given to lovers separated for an age.

(Sometimes they fall asleep at the grave; it’s peaceful, after all. In their restless slumber they see visions of how things must have been once, long ago. A peerless knight and a brave warrior, reunited, shining brightly.)

They fight with their half-sister, brave and sharp and lonely; once in green, and once in white. She saves them when she doesn’t have to, she warns them when she doesn’t need to. She stands at a statue in the rain and tells them of a choice to make.

(She mourns her mother in silent, sparse grief. Though they respect her wishes and leave her be, whenever they see her they greet her; she’s not alone. She’s not unloved. Even now, she’s not unloved.)

They seek out the flames of a ruined kingdom and fuel a child’s growth; they dance with the master in a clash of blade and claw, once in reality, once in dreams. They are left with a brief connection, a fond memory, and a child whose scarlet eyes remind them of an ever-burning, ever-beating heart.

(The Grimmchild curls up at their feet, tries their best to protect them from harm. Watches over them, gazing out at the unknown, at what awaits. When they dream of something unpleasant, the Knight takes them in their arms and soothes their sleep, and they settle once more.)

They clash with lords who honor them in battle, testing them to prove their worth. They bask triumphant in defeating them; that warm feeling expands further still when every mantis honors them, too. Being seen as worthy is its own reward.

(They receive a charm, a mark of respect, given freely to those who earned it. They wear it with pride.)

Their legacy is not in statues and temples, nor cities and mechanisms. They are no god, no hero, no figure of myth and legend.

But still, they persist, in small stories, in small kindnesses. In fire and dream, in memory;

they will be spoken of, honored, respected, _remembered,_ when they are gone.

In a hundred little ways, they will live on forever.


	7. nepenthe (the knight)

_**Nepenthe:** a medicine for sorrow; a place, person or thing, which can aid in forgetting your pain and suffering_

Sometimes, rarely, they are at peace. Everything is quiet, not in the absence of life, but in coexistence with it.

They stand at the shore of a clear lake; they pray, clumsily, at a temple hidden in tangles of greenery, at the graves and bodies of warriors, before a seal marked by three masks. They find solace under the empty gaze of hundreds of masks, with a shaman’s ever-cheerful company and the warm crackle of torches; they take a moment’s rest under the warm cloak of someone who has claimed them as child. 

(Though Mato is exuberant, by his brothers’ admittance he is not as skilled - the Knight thinks they like his company more. And surely it’s not a bad thing, nor a flaw, to prefer one to the rest.

He tells them stories, sometimes, of his days under the great Nailsage. They always listen.)

The rain falls behind great windows in a city they have never seen before, blurring the glass. Quirrel sits beside them, looking out into the distance, and they feel a quietness come over them, and all their troubles seem far, far away.

They stand before the monument to their sibling in the city’s center, drenched by rain, and for once they feel like the statue itself must feel; unknowing, solid, untouchable. Unaffected by any conflict within itself or around it, an anchoring point.

They climb up, since there is nobody to tell them not to, and they sit at the foot of the statue, leaning against it. It’s comfortingly solid, and the angle of it means it forms a little niche where they sit where the rain is just a little less drenching.

They don’t sleep; it’s too cold for them to. But for a moment, if they don’t look, they can feel safe, watched over by their sibling.


	8. oblivion (tiso)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tiso gets offended about not being dead because he didn't die GLORIOUSLY IN BATTLE dot txt

_**Oblivion:** the state of being completely forgotten or unknown; connotes feelings of isolation and aloofness, which lead to the annihilation or extinction of the self metaphorically_

When he wakes up, he can’t quite remember how he got here.

He remembers being injured, certainly; the cracks in his shell are proof enough. The fact that he woke up at all means he’s not dead.

In flashes, his memory trickles back, recollections of a cheering crowd and battle after battle, exhausting his energy little by little and-

He feels that perhaps it might have been a better fate if he _was_. Dying gloriously in battle, not marinating in his injuries and being forced to reflect on his own weakness.

(He doesn’t know why he sought the Colosseum in the first place. Did he think he could win? Was it as simple as that?

Was it something else?

He doesn’t dwell, doesn’t look backwards, refuses to look backwards.)

The lingering ghost, the pale wanderer he’d seen time and time again in his travels, sits beside him.

“What is it, pale thing? Are you here to mock me?” His voice sounds strange, dull, wrong in his own hearing. The words are hard to get out.

They shake their head, silent. They push a cup into his hands, trying to urge him to drink, and refuse to let go until he does.

He’d sought out the Colosseum. He doesn’t know where he’d go from there. He didn’t _expect_ there to be anything else, after that.

Now he has to think about it.

It’s so _irritating._


	9. redamancy (grimm/brumm)

_**Redamancy:** act of loving in return_

Even having it confirmed _twice_ \- once within dreams and once without - sometimes he still doesn’t understand why.

He knows he probably shouldn’t question it; everything he’s ever heard about love and all its trappings doesn’t mention dealing with insecurities. That’s probably not romantic enough.

But he withdraws, sometimes, trying to make sense of it all. He loves Grimm, certainly. That much is obvious.

Grimm gives him space, as much space as he needs, and that feels odd. He should feel grateful that Grimm understands when to withdraw, but it’s…

After a time, it feels lonelier than it used to, and he’s not sure he understands it either. 

He seeks out his master of his own accord, in the end. He says little; Grimm says nothing at all.

“Mrm. I’m sorry, Master.”

“What for?” he says, like his withdrawing never happened. That, too, stings a little, though he doesn’t know why that is. It hurts and it helps, at the same time.

“Because I wasn’t…around. Mrm.”

Grimm remains silent, expectantly so, as if waiting for him to speak further. Not pushing him, but not carrying the conversation either.

“Would you miss me, Master?” The question is sudden, blurted out; it surprises him just as much as it surprises Grimm, whose eyes widen visibly.

(It’s not a pleasant kind of surprise. It makes his heart hurt to see it.)

“My dear musician - no,” he corrects himself, stops and starts again. “Brumm. Of course I would miss you.” He doesn’t ask _are you thinking of leaving_ , because clearly it’s not about that. “I feel your absence keenly, even when I know you need the space.”

It makes Brumm feel foolish to voice the complaint in the first place, or what seems like a complaint, but he…

Grimm won’t punish him for it, won’t mock him for it. So it’s fine, he thinks.

“…I don’t need as much space as before,” he mumbles, even softer than usual. “It feels – lonely, when you don’t…”

“When I don’t chase after you, when I don’t look for your presence? Ah, I see. That’s easily remedied, my dear friend. Very easily remedied.” Grimm’s eyes crinkle a little, some emotion Brumm’s not sure how to read. He doesn’t think it’s quite happy, but it’s certainly not angry.

(He rarely sees Grimm sad or melancholy about much. When it does happen, he doesn’t always know how to take it.)

“I did miss you very much, over these past few days,” the Troupe Master admits, his voice more vulnerable than usual, a slight waver in his usual unshakeable tone. He leans close to kiss his musician on the cheek, nuzzling gently. “I’d like to spend less time away from you, if possible. I won’t intrude if you need the space, but I do miss you when you’re distant.”

“Mrm. Of course, Master.”

He’s never really asked _do you really love me_ , because it’s always answered, in the end, by little things like this.


	10. skulduggery (the knight + grimmchild)

_**Skulduggery:** devious behavior_

They don’t usually indulge in play. Mostly, it’s because they don’t quite know what it is; their life has been about survival, and that leaves room for little else. When they’ve found peace, it’s in stillness, or watching others play, safe from harm.

They’ve never quite known how to approach it for themselves.

The child they’ve been entrusted with has no such reservations. They seem to expect the Knight to follow along, to know what to do when they spin and flutter about and fly ahead.

When the Grimmchild realises that they really don’t understand, they spend some time purring and nuzzling at their new friend in what’s apparently concern, or sadness, or a mix of the two. The little vessel that has become their newest caretaker doesn’t know what to do with such affection, and simply accepts it with bemusement.

Grimm explains the behaviour as best he can, but the Knight is still a little confused, a little uncomprehending. What are they supposed to do? _How_ are they supposed to play?

The Troupe Master laughs (though there’s a little pain in it, some fresh sadness, and again, they’re not sure why) at their silent questions. He gives them a goal; to surprise him.

 _“Perhaps that will suit you,”_ he says, and with those words, he takes his leave. The Grimmchild seems more excited, now, but it seems they have a goal.

They follow the child’s lead. They know their father better than the Knight does, after all. Plans are made, and discarded, and settled on; practice ensues. The Knight finds themselves spending - they don’t know how much time. It could be hours, or days; Hallownest is locked in a kind of timeless stasis, and so time never passes the way it should, the way it does in the wilds and the lands beyond that.

The Troupe, too, is outside time. An endless dream of scarlet fire. They could play forever, if they wished it, if this is what playing is.

They still don’t _know_ what playing is, but they are beginning to understand that something doesn’t have to have a point to be enjoyed, that tumbling down into waterfalls and falling into bushes, leaping and running and chasing each other, is something that is both pointless and wonderful at the same time.

 _“Surprise me,_ ” he had said, so they do. It’s very hard to surprise Grimm; he catches them at it time and time again, snatching them out of the air with a laugh. They become tangled in his cloak, more than once; it too is an obstacle to be avoided.

But the Grimmchild helps, as an endearing distraction. (He clearly loves his child very much. The Knight feels a twinge of pain watching them both; not envy, but that soft sorrow that comes over them when they watch others at play, able to relax without care or burden.

It’s nice, to see it. It’s nice to be reminded there are good things in the world. But it’s not for them. They are, as always, an outsider.)

They launch themselves at him from an unexpected angle, the Grimmchild chittering in their unusual laugh, and this time they manage to reach him, clinging to him and pulling at the collar of his cape without being caught. It’s so unexpected they almost fall off his shoulders entirely, but he steadies them.

“There,” he says, with satisfaction. “Have you learned a little more, now?”

 _Have_ they learned? They look back on the memories they’ve made; they think they have.

They nod, once, and he chuckles and pets their head. It’s a warmth they soak up, leaning into the touch to receive it.

He carries them around on his shoulder for a while. They don’t complain, or move.

It’s nice, they think.


	11. hiraeth (quirrel)

_" **Hiraeth:** the homesickness for a home you can never return to; a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past_"

He lingers in the Archives.

After he’d left the lake, he’d wandered with little purpose. Leaving his weapon there might have been a foolish decision, but he doesn’t regret it; when he has need of it, he’ll come back to pick it up once more.

But right now, he is Quirrel the archivist, not Quirrel the wanderer, and so he leaves it alone on the shore; a reminder of his presence.

For days, he looks over the records. He remembers how to read them, at least, and in the words he finds a familiarity just on the edge of thought. He knew this, once upon a time; he knew the writer as well as he knew himself.

Now he is left with neither.

With no task to complete, he feels the loss keenly. His own past is a mystery to him, forever locked; he bears the scars and the growth, but no reference for it, no map.

 _The future is built on the past_ , someone had once said to him. _We must remember_.

It could be her voice, or it could be his own. Or it could be someone else, long gone, forgotten entirely.

He stands at the empty tank and asks her _Why me?_ knowing that she will not, cannot answer. It’s an unfair question, he knows. She gave up so much more than he did, in the end.

( _The part of him that is lost disagrees. Each and every memory of his life before was painful to hide, painful to erase. Painful to drown and dissolve, to keep him safe, knowing there was no returning._

 _Monomon’s voice is mournful. He cannot remember the words she said that day. It is a miracle he even remembers the slightest sliver of it._ )

He wanders the corridors, filled with the buzzing hum of Monomon’s carefully preserved records and nothing more. ( _The infection has faded; the Ooma and Uoma float placidly, with no brightly-burning orange in their cores, and they seem to remember him more than he remembers himself._ ) He reads the stories, over and over; records of what his teacher thought was best to preserve.

It speaks of a golden age, a wondrous place, the pinnacle of civilisation. An eternal kingdom with no stain or decay. Quirrel the archivist would agree.

Quirrel the wanderer, older and worn and more tired, thinks of the things he’s seen in the world; quiet and beautiful places, triumphs and tragedy, joy and sorrow. Laughter and tears, surface wind and light less harsh than a raging god, less cold than a distant monarch;

 _would I trade those memories to regain the ones of my past?_ is the question he asks himself, and he is surprised - shocked - to find that he would not.

It feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, like he was making a decision without quite being aware of it. He had been split into two, until now; a scholar yearning for those days to return, a traveler only looking forward.

Both of them are him, and both of them are not. He can be both, without conflict, without guilt; he can cherish what little he had of the past and hold his hands out to the future. He has no power to bring those days back; he can’t dwell on it forever.

He stays in the Archives a little longer, but his heart and his step is lighter.

“I’m leaving, Madam,” he says, to the empty tank (he’s made a habit of speaking to it, even knowing nobody dwells inside). He’s never been very good at speeches, so he decides he’ll keep it short. “I won’t return for a long while yet, so I’ll ask for your blessing on my travels.”

He bows low. “Thank you for everything.”

He doesn’t know what he expects. He turns away before his imagination runs away with him, as it has so many times before.

But just for a moment, he thinks he feels the pulse and hum in the air that was Monomon’s laughter, the way she smiled.

He leaves the Archives; he does not look back.

After some thought, he stops by the lake, and retrieves his nail.

He'll need it.


End file.
